Snowed In: Part 1
by talamae
Summary: No counteragent, no heat and only a few feet between them, Darien and the Keeper must find a way to survive a car accident, a snowstorm and each other.


Snowed In

3:37 p.m.

It was one of those days, one of those storms that would inspire W.C. Fields to stand in the doorway and say, "It isn't a fit night out for man nor beast." 

Nor cargo van for that matter. But the rusted F&G van slipped and slid its way along the mountain roads of the Colorado Rockies anyway, narrowly missing embankments, ditches and guardrails.

"We should have flown," Darien Fawkes muttered, taking the scraper out for the fifth time to hack at the frost on the inside of the windshield. 

"We're lucky we got this little excursion at all," said Claire, zipping her parka up as far as it could go. The meager heat pumping from the van's defroster did little to erase the white frost on the windshield, let alone warm up its occupants. "It was good to get away from the Agency headquarters. I enjoyed myself." 

"And I thought I needed to get out more often. If you think spending three days with a group of eggheads is a good time, then" he trailed off. "The next time we go through the Rockies, let's ask for a sled and some dogs. It might be more comfortable."

"Yes, a science conference is my idea of a good time. I found it relaxing. You got a chance to get away from Hobbes and the Official for a while, and I got a chance to discuss elements of my research with some very intelligent people. It was a nice change of pace." She said, tugging on her gloves. 

"Nice change of pace," Darien mouthed her last sentence mockingly. "I don't know why I had to be there."

"It worked out perfectly. The Agency wants both of us to be secure. I needed bodyguard and you needed the counteragent. It worked perfectly."

"Except now we're stuck in a blizzard that could be the start of a new ice age," he pumped the van's archaic brakes as they slid around a corner. 

"You should slow down. You're going too fast," she said.

"I want to get away from here," he said.

"It's surprising you're in a hurry to get back to the Agency," she mused. "After all that fun at the conference wet bar. The doctor from Berkeley thought it was funny I had a bodyguard with only one arm."

"Well, I gotta have fun with this invisibility thing at some time or another," Darien said. "Besides, he was drunk enough I could have just told him about the gland and he would've believed me. If this project is so hush-hush how come you went to a conference to discuss it?"

"I didn't openly discuss the QS project. I inferred to your brother's research and the subject of biosynthetic implantation. I didn't have to divulge in specifics to glean from other scientists' research, just as they don't have to tell me what they are working on. We can learn a lot from each other through general principles, rather than specifics," she said, squinting in the lights of an oncoming car. "One of the basic principles in science is to share what you have learned with others. But today, science is just as competitive as the stock market. Everyone has secrets they would rather not share."

"Convenient," Darien said.

"They were very impressed at the morsels of your brother's theories and introductory work I threw in front of them,"

"Hmmm," he responded.

"You don't talk about him a lot, your brother" she said.

"I'm not an egghead, and I've had all of his research that I can stomach,"

"Don't tell me your still bitter. How can you be angry at him. He's dead," she said. 

"And we're both still here dealing with his life's work, aren't we," Darien said, grabbing for the scraper again. "This frost is driving me nuts. Do me a favor and stop breathing for a while. Maybe it will go away." His gloved hands couldn't grip the tool tight enough and it fell at his feet. "Crap," he reached down for it.

"You're drifting into the other lane," she warned.

"Where is that thing?"

The flash of the headlights of an oncoming semi illuminated the cabin of the van as they came around the corner. Claire's scream brought Darien's attention back to the road. He turned the steering wheel violently to the right, but overcompensated. The semi flew past them as they skirted towards the shoulder and too close to the railing. Darien wrestled with the wheel and pumped the brakes, trying to exercise sanity over the crazy flailing of the van's back end. It was no use. The brakes locked up and he lost control. The van punched through the railing, burst through a line of pines and into a snow covered clearing. Momentum kept the van careening through brush and shrubs and into a deeper grove of trees. Darien remembered yelling to Claire to hold on, but his voice sounded foolish and powerless as they slammed into a tree, drove up an embankment and tipped over. 

After those few seconds of violence there was complete silence. Claire's seatbelt had saved her from flying through the windshield. But the seat's legs had come off their poorly welded supports and thrust her up against the dash, still strapped to the seat. She could feel an intense pinching pain in her neck, which might mean a fractured collar bone, and she was pretty certain that her leg, trapped underneath the seat, was broken. She mentally cursed herself for being so methodical about her self-diagnosis, so doctorly. I am in serious shape, she thought. I can afford to be emotional. Every gasp brought a new signal of pain from somewhere in her body, and she let herself cry a little bit. It was soothing. 

The van had come to rest on its right side. She felt the coolness of the passenger window against the side of her face. She was alive, and had hopefully escaped internal injuries. No blood in her mouth, no ringing in her ears. She gingerly turned her head as much as she could to the left and caught a glimpse of Darien. 

He was still strapped to the driver chair, and gravity was making his arms hang lazily towards her. Right below the hairline of his forehead was a small gash, bleeding slightly. He was so tall his forehead hit the windshield she thought, and saw the spider-web of cracks in the glass that proved the hypothesis. 

"Darien?" she mustered, raising her left arm towards him and wincing, "Can you hear me Darien?" No response, not even a shudder. He was too far away to reach and she couldn't bear the thought of leaning over to search for his pulse. There was too much pain. He could be dead, she thought. He could be dead or dying and I can't do anything about it.

Another thought drifted through her mind: special order sixteen in the QS project files. If she was in the vicinity of Darien Fawkes when he should happen to be mortally wounded or compromised, she was to remove the gland from his skull using whatever means necessary. Was this one of those situations? Right, and if he is dead what I am going to use to perform surgery? A shard of glass? These morbid thoughts made her weepy again and she pushed them out of her mind.

"Darien, please wake up. If you can hear me, please say something," she cried loudly. "I need to know you are all right!"

No response. She moaned in pain and frustration, and then saw it, a little puff of vapor, come from his mouth. Then another cloud expelled into the air above his face, and dissipated. She smiled in triumph. He was alive, thank God. He was probably unconscious from the bump on his head. If it wasn't serious he might wake up within minutes. 

"Okay, you sleep for right now," she said, relaxing as much as she could. Her eyelids were growing heavy and she was starting to shake. She could feel shock settling in. Keeping her eyes open was becoming a Herculean effort. No, no sleeping. She willed herself awake. "No sleeping," she said aloud. "I will stay up and then when you decide to awake, then I'll consider a nap." 

4:45 p.m.

She awoke when a great twinge of pain hit her like a punch to the face, her chest, her kidneys. She could feel someone's hand holding her left shoulder tightly and pulling her away from the dash. "Dear God, stop!" She shouted.

"What? What?" Darien's voice dragged Claire from her stupor completely. 

"Darien, don't move me anymore," she said, gasping. "I probably have a broken leg and collar bone, maybe internal bleeding. You shouldn't move me."

"You can't stay in here like that. I think I can get you out if you help a little bit," he said, his face was lined with concern. "Are you with me?"

She shuddered, realizing she had been falling back into that pit of exhaustion and shock. She willed herself awake again. "What do you want me to do?"

"Can you push against the floor, with your good leg, and maybe move the chair back a bit?" He asked. "I'll pull and you push."

"I don't have much to push with," she groaned and braced her right leg against the dash. He pulled and she managed a slight push with a yelp of pain. The seat slid back, releasing her trapped leg from underneath.

"I'm going to pull you into the back," he said, reaching under her armpits and pulling her up. She bit her lip to keep from screaming as he pulled her from the seat, and dragged her through the small enclosure into the back of the van. She nearly blacked out again before he set her down on a pile of clothes from their suitcases. 

"I'm sorry," he said as she cried a bit. 

"No, it was a good idea. I would have cramped up in that position," she said between whimpers. "This is better."

"For a while I thought you were dead," he said, draping a blanket over her.

"The thought had occurred to me when I first saw you," she said, gratefully taking the blanket from him. "Well, we've established that we're both alive," she said and managed a weak laugh. "What kind of shape are we in?"

He brushed at the frost on the back window. "I've stuck my head outside. It's still snowing and visibility is only about a foot in front of my face. I can't see the road. I think we went pretty far from the highway. The snow has already covered our tracks so I don't know where exactly we are in relation to the road. I'll have to wait til it stops snowing or the sun comes up to see anything."

"My cell is in my briefcase."

"I tried that all ready. We're too far out. There's no service. I tried the emergency channel on the CB, but I don't know if anyone heard me," he grinned. "I though I-Man would be an appropriate CB handle. What do you think?"

She nodded towards the electronic devices that were strewn about everywhere. "What about that equipment?"

"It's mainly meant for surveillance, not long distance calls. I don't think it's powerful enough," he picked up one of the headsets. "We're striking out here."

"So we'll wait. What about provisions? Food and water?"

He held up the brown doggy bag they took from the deli. "I have the half of Reuben and a bag of chips left over from lunch and you still have about five bites left of a Caesar salad. Believe it or not, there are some candles in the glove box that we can use for melting snow. But maybe more important than food is medicine. You're obviously in a lot of pain," he said.

"I do have some ibuprofen in my bag, and it will have to do," she said. 

"I'm also going to need a little medicating myself," he said, pulling up his sleeve. About one third of the scales on his snake tattoo were reddish-orange colored.

"The vial of counteragent and the syringes should be in the same bag,' she said. He opened up her suitcase, looked through it, then took out a little black purse.

"That's it," she said. He opened it and found the ibuprofen bottle. She dry swallowed four of the little red capsules as he pulled out the counteragent vial and a plastic wrapped syringe. 

"Hmm, maybe I'll be sucking on it, instead of getting it in my arm," he said, holding the vial up to the light.

"What do you mean?" she asked.

"It's frozen," he said, handing to her. "The vial is cracked, see?"

Her eyes widened and she took it from him. "This is not good."

"Why? Can't we just thaw it out?"

"I don't know. I told you before that the agent doesn't keep well. It's very unstable. I have no idea if it will work if it's thawed out. I don't even know if it will be safe to give you." 

"We have to try something, right? I need to take that risk," he glanced down at the tattoo. "You need to take that risk."

"Fine, get that candle going and we'll see what happens. How do you feel otherwise? You might have a concussion."

"Beside a little headache and light headedness, I'm fine."

"Good. Why don't you try the CB again too."

"Why, yes ma'am. Wake the woman up and already she'd giving orders," he said and looked at her with a smile. "I'm kidding."

"Good," she said, without smiling back. "Do you know how long I was out? Asleep, I mean."

"I woke up about an hour after the crash I guess. I didn't actually get up for another 15 minutes. I tried to move you about an hour later and that's when you woke up," he placed a candle on the floor and lit it with a lighter. He looked back towards the rear windows. "I don't know the exact time." The ceiling light next to Claire's left shoulder flickered.

"It's going to get rather cold in here," she said, reaching back and snapping the cover off the light. "Do the same to the other light. It'll give us a little more radiant heat, not much but some." 

"Yeah, and it will probably get colder as the night comes on," he opened his suitcase and pulled on another shirt, then zipped his coat up again. "I wish we had a deck of cards or something."

"Hopefully someone will see us from the road," Claire said, pulling the blanket up to her chin. The ibuprofen was kicking in a bit, but she didn't want to sleep. It shouldn't take long for a rescue."

"Nope, not long," he said and settled in. The candlelight flickered in his eyes as he placed the counteragent vial close to the flame, as well as a Claire's water bottle from lunch that was turning icy. 

Claire looked down at that little bottle of counteragent and caught her breath. The tattoo was nearly one third red, and if this batch of counteragent was spoiled in anyway he could reach the madness point in a matter of hours, maybe less. She watched his movements as he folded up a pile of clothes from his suitcase to lean on. 

"Comfortable?" he asked her in a jovial tone.

"As good as can be expected," she said. He was so kind at this moment, and willing to cater to her needs. What would happen in a few hours if he turned into a red eyed maniac, like when he attacked Hobbes in the phone booth? 

She had faced him in this situation before. He had been helpless, stuck in a padded room and restrained by a straightjacket. But this time she was the helpless one. She felt so weak right now she wasn't sure she could even raise her good arm, let alone fend off a crazed attacker.

But no, she shouldn't think like that about him. For all she knew, the counteragent would work and he would be fine. If not, he might have more control than she knew, and the madness was a gradual process that took time to overcome his sanity. She watched as he busied himself putting on extra clothes, looking out the window and checking the counteragent vial to see if it had thawed any yet. After a few minutes near the flame there was enough fluid for an entire dosage. He handed her the bottle and the syringe. 

"I don't know if this is going to work," she said, filling the needle. 

"It can't hurt, can it?" He asked, removing his coat and rolling up his sleeve.

"I don't have gauze. I want you to put your fingers over the spot and hold it there when I'm done," she said. She withdrew the needle and he pressed the spot and bent his arm.

"So what's next?" she asked, putting the bottle away and rubbing her chilly arms. Darien pulled down his sleeve and put on another layer of clothes. 

"I don't know. I'm not sure how cold it's going to get in here. We're out of that wind, at least," he said as the howl of the storm outside made them both jump. 

"The candle will help," she said, leaning as far as her bad shoulder would allow her towards the small flame.

Darien let out a scoff. 

"What?"

"If we're missing the fat man will probably think that I kidnapped you and headed out on my own. Either that or we've skipped the agency together. A whirlwind weekend romance that is turning out to be something from Raising Arizona,' he said.

"I don't think you give the Official enough credit. He let you come on this trip didn't he? That shows some semblance of trust. Quit being such a martyr."

"I'm not being a martyr. I'm telling it like it is. No doubt they'll have my picture on every post office wall from here to Florida," he said, taking out the last half of his sandwich and biting into it. He pulled a piece off and handed it to her, which she took and ate.

"No, I don't think so."

"Why?"

"Because if you ever ran off the Agency has more discreet plans to round you up."

The smile on his face disappeared. "What do you mean?"

"Surely you don't think that the Official doesn't have a plan in case you go crazy and really disappear."

"I knew it. You're all plotting against me."

"Oh, come on. I was at the meeting, that's all. And you need to remember that we have your welfare in mind. We don't want anything to happen to you when you have one of your episodes."

"Somehow that doesn't make me feel all that confident," he handed her another piece of sandwich and took a drink of water. "Paranoia sounds crazy until you realize that they really are out to get you. That kind of thinking certainly did me good in prison."

She put the piece of sandwich in her mouth and chewed. "Do you mind if I ask you about that?"

"What?"

"The time you spent in prison."

"Grey walls and metal bars. The occasional celebrity sighting. Not much else to say."

She took the water bottle from him and drank. "How about the company?"

"Well, you learn to stay away from the really bad guys," his face fell and averted his eyes.

"What?"

"I was just thinking," he muttered. "I met a lot of people in prison I didn't really want to be around. The pedophiles, the multiple murders, the rapistspeople I knew belonged in there. And I thought that hey, I might be occasionally stealing someone's life savings, but at least I wasn't out there killing people, or abusing them. I wasn't one of _them_. But I am now, thanks to my buddy here," he patted the back of his neck. 

"You aren't a murderer," she said. "Don't over-react."

"Not yet."

"Not ever. The system we have now will prevent any rash behavior," she insisted, and groaned a bit as shoulder ached. "You don't have to worry about QSM. Those episodes are in the past." 

He pulled up his sleeve to look at the tattoo. "Maybe you should be concerned about one of those episodes' right now." She saw the red coloring of the snake still dominated the green.

"It didn't work," she said, catching her breath.


End file.
